


No One's at Fault We're All to Blame

by completelyhopeless



Series: Shirt Theft [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Borderline crack, Community: comment_fic, Gen, Humor, implied shirt theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completelyhopeless/pseuds/completelyhopeless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson wants an explanation for the food fight in the cafeteria. He doesn't like the answer he gets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One's at Fault We're All to Blame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> For the prompt: _[MCU, Clint Barton + Melinda May, so maybe the food fight was kinda sorta possibly their fault—a little](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/565512.html?thread=79484424#t79484424)_
> 
> Since it was me, though, I ended up having a couple bits of shirt theft sneaking in, so this could be how Natasha learned what kind of laundry soap to use or this could be how May knows about Captain America shirts.
> 
> Or it could just be crack. At least the 0-8-4 wasn't there this time.

* * *

“Either of you have any kind of explanation for this?” Coulson asked, folding his arms over his chest and waiting for an answer from the agents in front of him. He'd called them into his office as soon as the food stopped flying, and they'd obeyed, but he figured that had more to do with wanting to avoid cleaning up the mess than it did following orders.

“No,” Barton said. Then he added, “It wasn't us.”

“You can't tell me you weren't involved,” Coulson said, wondering if they thought he was stupid or if they all just loved screwing with him so much that they didn't care how ridiculous they sounded or looked. “Your pants are covered in bits of food and your—where is your shirt?”

“Natasha took it. She said she'd wash it.”

Coulson could feel a migraine coming on. “Since when does Romanoff do your laundry?”

“Since today, I guess,” Barton answered. He caught Coulson's look and shrugged. “Hey, if a highly trained Russian assassin says she's gonna wash my shirt, I'm not gonna argue with her.”

Phil conceded the point, turning to May. Her hair was dripping wet—all of her was—and her shirt had soaked flat against her skin, now an unnatural shade of orange instead of the white it must have been before this all started. “You should change.”

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not. You're shivering and you look like you got orange juice poured out of your head like the end of a football game,” Coulson said, frowning when he realized that was probably what had happened to her. He shook his head and turned around, opening the top drawer of his desk. He took out one of his spare shirts and passed it to her. “Here. Put that on. At least part of you will be dry.”

May rolled her eyes but snatched the shirt from him. He focused on Barton, trying to ignore what May was doing behind the other man's back. “I'm still waiting for the explanation.”

“Eastman started it.”

“Eastman has been here longer than I have and came from the CIA. Half the agents here are as scared of him as they are of Fury.”

Barton snorted. “Eastman isn't scary. He's just an overgrown bully who thinks pushing new recruits is funny. I don't care how long he's been with S.H.I.E.L.D. He's a dick. I told him if he pulled that crap with the apple one more time, I'd show him what I'd do with an arrow, but he didn't listen.”

“So you shot him with an arrow?” Phil asked, trying to figure out if Barton would still have a job when all of this was over.

“No.”

May came around Coulson and grabbed a rubber band off his desk, using it to pull back her still soggy hair. Barton gave the shirt a look that Coulson chose to ignore. Phil hadn't realized he'd grabbed one of the Captain America ones. He thought that was one of the plain blue ones—they were the ones that should have been in that drawer anyway.

“He was going to throw the apple at Clint like he does every time they're in the cafeteria together.”

Phil almost groaned. “You shot the apple with an explosive arrow, didn't you?”

“Maybe.” Barton fidgeted and then shook his head. “They shouldn't have had applesauce today.”

“What?”

“Everyone knows May hates applesauce,” Barton said. He looked over at her. She glared back at him. “Well, she does. A few people might have assumed that she started it.”

“Because you _told_ them I did,” she said, hitting him, and Barton winced, rubbing his arm. She faced Phil and told him, “I was only defending myself.”

“You're the one that hit me with a _cabbage,"_ Barton fired back. "I still don't know where that came from.”

“When I need a weapon, I find one,” she said, smiling dangerously.

“All right, enough,” Coulson said, holding up his hands to stop them before they started another fight in his office. “I'll discuss disciplinary action for both of you with Director Fury when he gets back.”

“What about Romanoff?”

Phil stared at them. “Tell me Romanoff was not involved in that. Please.”

“Well...”

**Author's Note:**

> Eastman is an OC that is in the 0-8-4 series.


End file.
